


Dean Winchester Finds his Heaven

by claimingsanctuary (timeschange)



Category: Pushing Daisies, Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Crossover, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:30:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1603565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeschange/pseuds/claimingsanctuary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The facts were these. When Dean Winchester first saw the love of his life, he was thirty-three years, four months, two days, nine hours, and twenty-one minutes old. It came in the form of a pie-shaped building, and it was everything he could have ever hoped for and more.</p><p>Dean and Sam were working a case-- what seemed to be a regular, salt-and-burn ghost problem-- when they ran into a complication: a man that can bring the dead back to life with just a touch. Can the Winchesters work with Ned the Pie Maker to stop their vengeful spirit?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Pie Hole

**Author's Note:**

> So this is just a short fic I threw together/am throwing together based off a prompt thing I saw on Tumblr...Let me know what you think! Url is: fantasy-novelist

              The facts were these. When Dean Winchester first saw the love of his life, he was thirty-three years, four months, two days, nine hours, and twenty-one minutes old. He froze in the middle of the sidewalk, making his younger brother Sam run into his back.

              “What the _hell,_ Dean?” Sam demanded, glaring daggers at his brother.

              He grew even more irritated when he saw that Dean clearly wasn’t paying him any attention. Dean couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to anything, at that point. He stared straight ahead, a ridiculous, dopey, slack-jawed look decorating his face. His eyes had even glazed over. Sam followed his gaze, expecting to see a busty blonde or something equally crude and typically Dean.

              When his gaze landed on what had Dean so fixated, his eyes widened.

              “ _Dude,”_ Dean whined. He started forward then, shuffling toward the source of his sudden ecstasy like a man under a spell.

              “Dean! Stop! We’re in the middle of a case, dude. We have research to do!” Sam said, following his older brother. They were both wearing their suits, as they were _supposed_ to be heading to interview a few of the victims’ closest relations under their typical FBI pretense.

              “We can research and eat pie at the same time,” Dean reasoned, pointing at the pie shaped building at the end of the street. “Sammy, its a building in the shape of _pie._ You know there’s no freaking way you’re stopping me from going in there.”

              “Yeah,” Sam sighed, slumping in defeat, “I know.”

              Dean paused at the entrance, looking over the restaurant’s beautiful exterior. The Pie Hole. It looked friendly inside, and when he opened the door, he was assaulted by the smell of fruit and pastry weaving together in a delicious, tantalizing wave. His green eyes fluttered shut, and he let the smell engulf him.

              “Seriously, man,” Sam laughed, “You look like you just met the love of your life.”

              “I have, Sammy. I have,” Dean sighed dreamily. He stalked up to the counter, flashing the adorable, perky, and ridiculously _tiny_ blonde waitress behind the counter his most charming smile.

              “Welcome to the Pie Hole, what can I do for ya?” she asked, grinning this huge grin that made the Pie Hole even more  _perfect_ , in Dean's opinion.

              “I don’t even know where to begin. What would you say is your _best_ pie?” Dean asked, eyes roving over the place—and the waitress, Sam noticed with a smirk—hungrily.

              “Well," she drew the word out, "My pie of the day is pecan! Every day I pick one pie and I concentrate all my love on it and recommend it to all of our customers,” she explained, “and by the end of the day, I’ve sold more of that pie than any other. But all of our pie will just leave you absolutely breathless, and that is a guarantee.”

              “Pecan sounds perfect,” Dean purred, giving the waitress a wink.

              “I’ll just have apple, thanks. And a coffee,” Sam sighed, “Dean, I’ll be at the booth over there—join me when you’re, uh…finished here.”

              “Yes, sir,” Dean said, rolling his eyes and flashing an apologetic smile at the waitress.

 

              Emerson Cod was sitting at his usual booth, staring out the Pie Hole’s round window and thinking about his pop-up book, Lil’ Gumshoe, when an unnaturally tall man in a cheap suit with a flowing brown mane sat in the booth adjacent to his.

              He narrowed his eyes at the back of the man’s head. Everything about him reeked of Federal Agent, and if there was one thing Emerson Cod could not stand—next to annoying humans, pro bono cases, and the word _moist—_ it was Federal Agents. They were bad for business and annoying to boot. He looked down at his three plum pie with a frown, knowing he wouldn't be able to properly enjoy it with a Federal Agent blocking his view.

              “Okay, so here’s the case,” the moose-like man began when his partner joined him. Bow legs nodded at Moose to continue. “Three… _mysterious_ deaths in the past two weeks, all here in the area.”

              “Mysterious how?”

              “I was getting to that. According to the preliminary reports, they all committed suicide, right? But all three of them were found with blood coming out of their ears--”

              Bow Legs scrunched up his nose in distaste.

              “—and their brains sort of…deteriorated. And apparently the family and friends of all three vics say there’s _no reason_ any of them should have committed suicide.”

              “Casey, the first vic, is a theatre major. She apparently just got a big role in some local play.”

              “Right. Not likely to kill herself after getting her dream role,” Bow Legs smirked. “And the other two?”

              “Richardson owned a successful dinner-and-a-show night club thing, and Leia, the third vic, was his star singer.”

              “At the same club?”

              “Yeah, but I don’t see any connection Casey has to the club.”

              “It's a start," Bow Legs shrugged. "We’ll just have to look harder. And by 'we' I mean 'you.'”

              "And what will you be doing?" Moose asked skeptically.

              "If things go according to plan, I'll be eating pie and taking the waitress out for a drink."

              "Dude, she's like, half your size."

              Bow Legs shrugged. "So you think we should go check this club out?"

              “Yeah, I guess,” Moose said, turning some papers over thoughtfully. "I want to get a look at the bodies of our vics first, though, and maybe talk to Casey's sister."

              “No problem. So what are you thinking? Vengeful spirit?”

              “Maybe.”

              “Man, I hope so. It’s been too long since we had a good ol’ salt-and-burn gig. I miss the simple times—no angels, no Crowley or Abbadon, just ganking some old-fashioned evil sons of bitches, you know?”

              “Either way, this is better than the apocalypse.”

              His companion grunted his agreement. Moose turned to look at the counter and laughed at something.

              “Bad news, Dean—it looks like your waitress is more interested in her co-worker over there than you.”

              Bow Legs—Dean, not that Emerson Cod really cared—pouted a bit, then shrugged. “At least I still get me some pie.”

              Emerson Cod didn’t understand what they were talking about, and he didn’t care. All he knew was that these feds were working _his_ case. Casey’s sister had hired him to find out who murdered her sister, convinced that she hadn’t committed suicide. Emerson didn’t particularly care if she had or not—the girl promised to pay him either way.

              But if these feds solved the case before he did, then no money for Emerson Cod. And a money-less Emerson Cod was an unhappy Emerson Cod. He had to solve this case before the feds could. He needed Pie Boy and he needed him now.

              He ran—well, walked faster than usual, Emerson Cod never runs if he can help it—to the counter where Ned was staring lovingly into Dead Girl’s eyes (like usual).

              “We have a problem,” he grumbled.

              “By we do you mean you?” Ned asked, “Because I don’t see any problems. And I don’t want to see any problems, so if you have a problem maybe you should take it and put it somewhere where I won’t see it.”

              “What’s the problem, Emerson?” Chuck laughed softly.

              “Those two in the booth over there. Dumb and dumber. They’re my problem. They’re agents, and they’re stomping their big feet all over _my_ case.”

              “What do you want us to do about it?” Ned asked, glancing over to where the two men sat talking.

              “Tonight. We’re going to the morgue and you’re finding out who killed these people and I’m getting my money before those two can even tell what’s up. And you--” he pointed a finger at Ned, “—go over there and see what you can find out about them.”

                “I’m a pie maker, not a detective,” Ned shot back, “and I’m not going to go interrogating my customers just because you want me to.”

.

.

              “Pecan and apple pie?” a lanky, dark-haired man in Chuck Taylors and an apron asked, approaching the Winchesters with two plates.

              “Yeah,” Dean grinned, sitting up straighter in his seat, “that’s us.”

              “Olive—the waitress—will be right over with your coffee.”

              The second the man set the plate down on the table Dean dug in, and the sound he made was almost pornographic in its pleasure. The man’s lips quirked up in a small smile.

              “This is the greatest thing I’ve ever tasted,” Dean moaned between large mouthfuls. “Oh my god. Sammy— _eat it._ ”

              “Thanks,” the pie man smiled, “Uh—sorry. I’m Ned. I run the Pie Hole and make all the pies myself. It’s always good to know my work is appreciated,” he did his small-quirky smile again and shifted nervously.

              Sam raised an eyebrow at the man’s behavior. He seemed perpetually nervous—a trait that set off red alerts in the seasoned hunter’s mind.

              “You are a _god,_ ” Dean praised, looking at the Pie Maker in a whole new light. “No, seriously, man. I have had a _lot_ of pie in my life—“ Sam snorted “—and this seriously takes the cake.” Dean’s lips quirked up in a smirk. “You know what I mean.”

              “Yeah…I’ve never seen you guys in here before, so I thought I’d come over here and introduce myself personally. Are you new to town?”

              “We’re just passing through,” Sam answered hesitantly, looking the pie maker up and down. There was something off about the guy…he seemed pretty earnest, and Sam instinctually wanted to trust him. Maybe that was the problem. “It was nice to meet you.”

              “Right. Well…I’ll let you guys eat your pie in peace. If you need anything at all just let me know.”

              “I can tell you right now that I’m going to be needing another piece of this pie,” Dean grinned.

.

.

              “Alright, let’s get this over with,” Emerson said, pulling back the white sheet. On the cold metal slab was a young woman. Casey—the first victim. Her ears were puffy and swollen, but apart from that, she looked like she might just be sleeping. Nothing as gruesome as they usually saw.

              Chuck and Ned both gave him exasperated looks. Ned started the timer on his watch, tapping the dead girl’s arm. She shot up with a gasp.

              “Oh!” she began with a gasp. Then she groaned and clutched at her head, “Wowie, do I have a headache. Where am I, exactly? And where is that music coming from?”

              “Music?” Ned began, bewildered. “There's no music. And you’re dead, by the way” he said apologetically with a small shrug. “Sorry. But we need to know what you can remember about your killer so we can catch him and bring him to justice,” he let out in a rush.

              “Now I remember,” Casey said with a groan, “that explains why I have her godawful song stuck in my head. It was Angie. Angie killed me because I said I didn’t think she was a very good singer. She made me listen to her singing over and over again until I could practically feel my brain rotting in my head.”

              “Who’s Angie?” Chuck pushed gently.

              “Angie was my best friend. She died a year ago.”

              “She _died?_ ” Emerson clarified, stepping closer.

              Ned glanced down at his watch, up the girl, back down at his watch. Her minute was almost up.

              “Yeah. The club fired her and she committed suicide. And then she came to my apartment the other day—“

              “Sorry,” Ned cringed, tapping the woman on the arm again. Ned felt the usual shock of electricity and the girl fell back onto the metal table.

               "Well that was...odd. Even odder than usual," Chuck said.

              “What the hell,” a gruff voice came from behind them.

              Ned, Emerson, and Chuck turned, finding themselves staring down the barrel of two guns. Guns held by the two very frightening looking federal agents from earlier.

              Recognition flashed across their faces. “Why is it the good things in my life always go bad?” the shorter of the two asked his companion with a sigh. He turned to glare at the trio. “What the hell are you? Demons? Necromancers?”

              Ned’s mouth popped open in the shape of an O. " _What?_ "

              “He’s the one bringing dead things to life,” Emerson began, “I’m just a private detective.”

              Ned shot Emerson a glare. “And I’m just a pie maker. There's no bringing-the-dead-to-life going on here.”

              “And I’m just a—“ Chuck began, then paused. “Actually, I don’t really know what I am at this point.” The taller of the agents trained his gun on her. “But it’s nothing bad, I swear!” she hastened to add.

              Ned stepped in front of her, acting much braver than he felt. “Wait. I can explain. Sort of. I touch dead things and they come back to life—I was born that way and I don’t know why it happens, but it just sort of does so I use my ability to solve murders, so you see, I’m not really hurting anyone or throwing off the balance of the universe or anything because if someone’s dead I always return them to being dead. And I’m really using these powers for good, if you think about it.”

              The two men blinked at him, utterly bewildered.

              “Sammy,” the shorter one growled.

              Before he could say another word, Ned was being splashed in the face by some really cold water. He sputtered a bit, and the tall man splashed Chuck and Emerson as well. In one fluid movement, the taller of the agents grabbed and twisted Ned wrist, slicing into it neatly with a silver knife.

              “They’re not demons. And if he was a necromancer, he would have reacted to the silver,” the tall one said, looking between Ned and his partner with furrowed brows.

               “First ghosts, then demons, and now necromancers?” Emerson Cod demanded, looking at the Federal Agents like they'd just sprouted second heads, “Hell no. This is getting a little too crazy for me, thank you. I’m out.”

              “You just saw your friend kill someone with a touch and you don’t believe in demons?”

              “No, Bow Legs, I don’t. I believe in one thing: money. What the Pie Maker does makes me money. And this situation looks like it’s just going to make me dead or in jail, either way—I’m not getting any money.”

              The taller of the two agents lowered his gun, looking at Ned thoughtfully. “I don’t think he’s dangerous, Dean.”

              “I’m not! I get the feeling I’m pretty much the least dangerous person in the room right now, except for maybe Chuck. And I’m also getting the feeling that you’re not really FBI agents, so maybe we can call it a draw and...go our separate ways?” Ned trailed off hopefully.

              “You’re not getting off the hook that easily.” Dean still glared at the pie maker, but he lowered his gun. “That being said—I just might believe you. That’s _if_ you agree to tell me and my brother everything and _if_ you do so over pie.”


	2. Coming to an Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at the Pie Hole, Sam and Dean try to understand Ned and Chuck while Ned and Chuck try to understand Sam and Dean.

              “So you… _touch dead people_ and they _come back to life_?” Dean asked, blinking at Ned. They were back in the Pie Hole, and Dean was sitting with three slices of pie in front of him.

              “That pretty much sums it up. One touch, they’re alive, another touch, they’re back to being dead,” Ned nodded, glancing at Chuck.

              “Maybe he’s some sort of psychic?” Sam suggested, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

              “What do you mean by that?” Chuck asked. “And what did you mean back at the morgue about demons and necromancers? You’re not crazy or something, are you? Not that that’s a problem, I believe that one man’s truth can be different than another’s, but I’d like to know if you’re planning on sacrificing one of us in a blood ritual or something. You’re not, are you?”

              “Uh, no,” Sam laughed, “No blood rituals. We’re the good guys, promise.”

              “You never answered my original question,” Chuck accused.

              “We’re hunters. Everything that goes bump in the night—everything you’ve ever heard about in scary stories—it’s all true. Ghosts, demons, vamps, and that’s just scratching the surface. Sammy and I hunt the sons of bitches down and take them out,” Dean explained.

              “That’s crazy,” Ned said, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

              Both of the Winchesters gave him a look. “Dude. You touch things and bring them back to life.”

              “Yeah, but I’m a fluke. I’m just a weird accident in an otherwise completely normal world.”

              “I don’t think you’re an accident,” Chuck smiled at him.

              “Buddy, the world is anything _but_ normal,” Dean’s lips quirked up.

              “So you’ve killed things before?” Chuck asked curiously.

              “That’s an understatement,” Sam laughed. “We pretty much kill for a living.”

              “Wow. What’s that like?” she asked. Ned gave her a concerned look. “Sorry. Ned thinks dying has made me morbid.”

              “Wait, _you’ve_ died? And Ned brought you back?”

              “Say we believe you. What are you doing here? Do you think Casey and the others were really killed by a ghost?” Ned asked, cutting in before the Winchesters could ask more questions.

              Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “What makes _you_ think that?”

              “Casey said—“

              “Whoa, wait,” Dean began, leaning forward, “I think I’m starting to get this. So you wake up murder victims and flat out _ask_ them who killed them? Dude, that’s cheating. But it’s also kinda awesome.”

              Ned shrugged.

              “So what did Casey say killed her?” Sam asked, rolling his eyes at his brother.

              “Her best friend Angie,” Ned replied, “Her best friend Angie who died a year ago. She said Angie killed her because she said Angie wasn’t a very good singer—and…” he paused, tilting his head thoughtfully, “she woke up with one of Angie’s songs stuck in her head.”

              “Okay…” Sam said. “Did she say anything else?”

              “No—you guys burst in and, I, um, accidentally touched her again.”

              Ned shrugged, looking down at the table. He did not wish to tell the Winchesters about the other part of his ability—if you keep a dead thing alive for more than a minute, something else has to die. The Winchesters specialized in killing dangerous things, and the pie maker did not want them to think he was dangerous.  

              Because then that would be putting Chuck in danger, too. As much as Ned wished she hadn’t, Chuck _had_ died before and he didn’t want to risk the Winchesters seeing her as a threat. So this was all for Chuck, really.

              “…Right. Well,” Dean said slowly, “Thanks for the, uh, _intel_ , guys, but Sam and I can take it from here.”

              “Oh, I don’t think so, Bow Legs,” Emerson cut in, finally drawing the line.

              “That’s it,” Dean growled, leaping to his feet. He’d been called Bow Legs and Green Eyes and Pretty Boy one too many times for his liking.

              “ _Dean.”_

“Hang on,” Ned said, trying to get between Dean and Emerson. Somehow, shockingly, it worked. Dean still glared daggers at Emerson, and Emerson tried to make himself look bigger while glaring back at Dean. It was actually kind of funny for Ned, seeing someone tougher than Emerson Cod (and bigger and fitter and about a million times more deadly, but Ned didn’t want to think about that).

              “Look at you, rushing to break up a fight,” Chuck beamed up at him, “My hero.”

              Ned shot her an exhilarated grin, also shocked by his own bravery.

              “So how about we all calm down,” he started in a rush, turning toward Dean, “I’d like to apologize for my rude and annoying friend, he doesn’t like people very much. Emerson, _please don’t poke at the killing machine._ I don’t want to die.”

              Sam snorted. “Don’t worry about Dean. He’s like a teddy bear, really,” he said, ignoring the look Dean shot him.

              “Can we get back to the real problem, here?” Emerson interrupted. “Casey’s friend hired _me_ to find out who killed her and if you two numskulls take over the case I’m not getting paid, and that’s a problem.”

              “Emerson…you do realize that if the killer is a ghost you’re probably still not getting paid, right?” Chuck asked slowly, as if she was speaking to a child.

              Emerson frowned, having not thought about that eventuality. Dean snorted.

              “Great,” Emerson groaned, slumping in the seat next to Chuck and taking one of the slices of pie the Ned had cut for Dean (as if he needed to be further on Dean’s bad side). “Well in that case, go ahead and take the case. It’s a problem, but it’s not my problem.”

              “Just like that? Come on, Emerson. We’re talking about a _real_ ghost. Not a person brought back to life, but a _ghost._ Aren’t you at least a little bit curious?” Chuck asked.

              “Nope.”

              “Well I am.” She turned to Sam, “And I want to see this through. And I kind of _really_ want to see a ghost. So does Ned.”

              “He does?” Ned asked.

              “And we got you guys this far, so you owe us.”

              “No way. Too dangerous.”

              “We’ve been on loads of dangerous cases before, so we know what we’re doing.”

              “Not this kind of dangerous, sweetheart. This is a whole new world of crazy,” Dean said.

              “I’ve been dead,” Chuck bragged, “Can you two say that?”

              Sam and Dean simultaneously burst out laughing.

              “What? What did I say?”

              “Nothing. It’s…nothing. But you’re not coming. And that’s final.”

              Ned wanted to stay silent. He did not want to see a ghost. He had bad experiences with the idea of ghosts, starting all those years ago when he dressed as a ghost for Halloween and snuck away to see his father.

              And Ned didn’t want to believe in the Supernatural. He didn’t want to see that ghosts were real. Bringing things back from the dead were bad enough. If he didn’t see the ghost, he still had a chance to convince himself that he was a fluke and the rest of the world was relatively normal and there was nothing weird about it and the two guys in front of him were crazy. Crazy, but otherwise completely normal.

              But then he saw the disappointed look on Chuck’s face.

              “So you two _didn’t_ want to talk to the club owner?” Ned found himself asking before he had the presence of mind to stop himself. “You know, the… _dead_ club owner?”

              Sam’s face lit up, looking forward to the idea of speaking to a dead person that _didn’t_ involve heaven, hell, purgatory, ghosts, séances, or pre-recorded Casa Erotica tapes. Dean swallowed audibly, looking forward to solving a case without having to do any research. And getting to eat pies. And, okay, he was a little curious too.

              “Fine,” Dean growled. “But you’re doing things our way.” He pointed an accusing finger at Ned and Chuck in turn.

              “You got it, partners,” Ned grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it took so long, guys, but here it is! Chapter 2! It's a little on the short side, but the ending seemed like a good place to cut off. The next chapter will bring actual crime solving-- Ned and Dean following one lead, Chuck and Sam following another :) Please let me know what you think so far! :D


	3. The Ghost of Angie Christie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam, Dean, Ned, and Chuck head to the morgue, finding out once and for all that the ghost of Angie Christie is behind the killings. They split up-- Dean and Chuck to the cemetery, Ned and Sam to the club.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sooo sorry this took so long, guys, but I haven't abandoned this story, promise! I was kind of working on another fic, but now I'm back to this one! I think there's only going to be one more chapter after this!

The next day, the Winchesters, the girl named Chuck, and the pie maker found themselves back in the morgue, this time preparing to confront the dead club owner.

 Ned prepared to start the timer on his watch, doing it subtly so the Winchesters wouldn’t see. “Ready?”

He touched the man’s arm.

“Woah!” The man shot up, rubbing his temples, “do I have a headache.”

Sam and Dean gaped at the now living man, but only for a moment before they sprang into action.

 “Excuse me, Mr. Cardham?” Dean began, pulling an FBI badge from his jacket pocket. “My name is Agent Clapton, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Go for it! Anything I can do to help!”

“Do you know of anyone who’d want you dead?”

“Does it have to be someone living? Because my old girl Angela Christie. She was a singer at my club, but I fired her and she killed herself. She’s—“ he leaned in conspiratorially, “—been haunting the place ever since.”

“The club?”

“Yep. Last I remember, she was singing something while I was trying to close up and then she got mad and…wait…am I dead?”

“Sorry,” Ned cringed.

“Oh,” the man looked bummed for a few seconds. “Stuff happens, I guess. But I’m worried about Leia.”

“Uh…Leia’s dead, too.”

“Oh. That’s a shame—she had such a lovely singing voice. Is Beatrice still okay?”

“Who’s Beatrice?” Chuck asked gently.

Ned looked nervously at his watch. Five seconds.

“My girlfriend and Leia’s back up. I was the only thing standing between Angie’s ghost and Beatrice. Now that I’m gone, Angie’s definitely going to try—“

Ned accidentally bumped into the club owner, sending him back onto the metal slab, lifeless once more. “Oops. Sorry.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at Ned, but Dean shrugged. “Well that was…” Sam began.

“Friggin’ awesome?” Dean finished for him.

“So how do you get rid of a ghost?” Chuck asked from Ned’s side.

“You have to salt and burn their bones,” Sam answered, one hand on his hip and the other running through his hair.

“You mean you have to…dig up their grave?” Ned asked nervously.

“Yeah,” Sam cringed apologetically.

“Welcome to our world, pie boy,” Dean grumbled. “So you think we should split up? Two of us can go watch Beatrice, the other three can go dig up Angie’s grave.”

“Sure. But I dug up the grave last time, so it’s your turn. Ned and I can go find Beatrice, and you and Chuck can go dig up the grave,” Sam said. “Ned, do you think you could call Emerson and have him look up where Angie’s buried?”

Ned nodded and left to make the call.

“Dude,” Dean started, suddenly struck by a thrilling idea, “What do you think would happen if Ned touched a ghost?”

“Let’s not find out,” Sam rolled his eyes at his brother, making Chuck smile. For all their talk about killing and monsters, they were just like everyone else.

“She’s buried at the cemetery in Coeur d’Couers,” Ned said, coming back in.

 .

.

“So do you want to tell me what it is?” Dean growled, glancing over at Chuck, who was sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala.

“I beg your pardon?”

“We’re not stupid, Chuck. Sam and I have been doing this for a long time, and we know how to tell when someone’s hiding something from us.”

“We’re not hiding anything from you,” Chuck lied. She and Ned had talked it over the previous night—while Chuck wanted to trust the Winchesters with the truth about her resurrection, Ned insisted it was a bad idea, so she promised not to say anything.

“Chuck. I like you guys, I really do, and Ned makes some damn good pie. But if you’re hiding something, Sam and I _will_ find out what it is. Easier to just tell us.”

“Okay,” Chuck sighed. “But you have to really try to understand, okay? There’s another aspect to Ned’s abilities. If you keep a dead thing alive for more than a minute, something else has to die.”

“ _What?!”_ Dean asked, grip tightening around the steering wheel. “Just like, a random person?!”

“Yes, but Ned _knows_ it’s wrong, and he _always_ touches the person again before the minute is up.”

“Really, because he didn’t touch _you_ , Chuck!”

“That was different. He only had a minute to decide, and…we love each other, Dean. Are you telling me you wouldn’t have done the same for someone you love? For Sam?”

At her question, all of the anger seemed to seep out of Dean’s body. They drove in silence for a while, Chuck too worried to say anything.

“I sold my soul once,” Dean finally said, his voice low and gentle.

“You what?”

“A few years back…Sammy died, and I sold my soul to a demon in order to bring Sam back to life,” Dean shifted uncomfortably, “I’m just saying, I guess I know a thing or two about making sacrifices so someone you love can live. I can’t really point any fingers here.”

Chuck nodded, relieved. “ _Oh._ That’s why you laughed when I asked if either of you could say you’ve died.”

Dean laughed. “Yeah. Understatement.”

“So you’ve died too? How many times?”

“Too many to count. This one time, there was a creature called a trickster—who actually turned out to be the archangel Gabriel in witness protection, but that’s not important to the story—and he locked Sam in a really weird sort of Groundhog’s Day thing…”

.

.

“That must be Beatrice singing now,” Sam said, looking at the stage.

Ned nodded beside him. “Should we…get a table, or…?”

“Um, I guess. I don’t think Angie’s going to attack Beatrice in the middle of the show, right?”

“Probably not. But then, I’ve never met or talked to a ghost, so I’m not really sure how they think or act.”

“Good point,” Sam laughed as they took a table near the stage. “Hey, mind if I ask you something?”

Ned looked at him, head tilting curiously. “Go ahead.”

“So you and Chuck…you’re together? But you can’t touch her or you’ll kill her?”

“Yes,” Ned gave him a sad smile, “We’ve found ways around it, but it’s not easy. I don’t really mind, though,” he shrugged, “I mean, I’m sorry that we can’t touch, but at the same time, at least we still get to be together. We still get to talk. It’s better than her being dead.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right.” Sam saw where Ned was coming from. He would put up with it, if it meant he was able to talk to Jess again.

“Sometimes I wonder ‘why me,’” Ned mused, watching the stage as Beatrice strummed at a guitar, “Why I was born like this. Before, when I thought it was all I fluke, it was a little easier. But now I know that there are ghosts and demons and other kinds of monsters…I’m starting to wonder again. Why I was born different.”

“Hey, man,” Sam began, “I know how you feel.”

Ned raised his eyebrows at Sam. “You can bring people back from the life too?”

“No,” Sam laughed, “My thing was…even worse, if you can believe it. But I know how you feel. I know what it’s like to be a freak. Never quite feeling normal, always thinking of yourself as something unnatural. It’s hard. And I wish I could give you an answer, but the best thing you can do is accept that part of you for what it is…and it’s always easier with support. I don’t know what I would have done all these years without Dean.”

“Thank you for listening, everyone!” Beatrice shouted suddenly, “Cd’s are on sale in the back, enjoy the rest of your evening!”

As she strutted off the stage, Sam nodded at Ned to follow her.

 .

.

Beatrice sat at her dressing room mirror, wiping off her lipstick, when a knock came at the door.

“Come in!” she called, eyebrows shooting up as two tall, handsome men opened the door.

“Uh…Beatrice?” the one with the longer hair began sheepishly, “Sorry to bother you, but we wanted to ask you a few questions…about Angie Christie?”

“Why don’t you just ask me?” another voice came from the back of the dressing room.


	4. Chapter 4

          Sam and Ned spun around when they heard the voice behind them. The ghost of Angie Christie stood in the corner of the brightly lit dressing room, watching them. Taking a step in front of Beatrice, Sam tried to block the tiny singer from the ghost’s wrath.

          Angie’s skin was pale and her blonde hair askew, and the sparkling dress that seemed too large for her pale frame was a muted red, a cheap imitation of the gown Beatrice still wore.

          “ _Thrilling_ performance tonight, Bea,” Angie sneered, “Although I would’ve been better.”

          “Oh, please. Richardson only hired you out of _pit,_ Angie!”

          Ned shot Beatrice an exasperated look. “Really? You see a ghost and your first impulse is to _mock_ it?”

          Beatrice shrugged helplessly.

          “ _I’m a better singer than you Beatrice!”_ Angie screeched, taking a step toward them.

          “Uh…You guys don’t have any salt or iron with you, do you?” Sam asked Ned and Beatrice.

          The Piemaker turned from where he’d been gaping at the ghost to gape at the hunter instead. “Um, no. Should we? That probably would’ve been good to mention _before_ we confronted he angry ghost.”

          “Yeah, well…we should probably run,” Sam said, shoving Beatrice out the door. Ned followed, and Sam slammed the door behind the three of them, but Angie was no longer in the dressing room.

          “Beatrice, which way to the kitchen?” the hunter asked, “If we find salt, we can hold Angie off long enough for our friends to get rid of her.”

          Beatrice gave him a look, but nodded and took off down the hallway, the boys on her heels.

          “It’s not far,” she panted just as an eerie singing drifted through the hallway.

          “ _Cover your ears!_ ” Sam hissed.

          The three of them burst into cramped, industrial kitchen.

          “Oh boy. Uh…That’s a lot of food. How are we supposed to find the salt before _she_ finds _us?”_ Ned asked, resting his hands on his hips.

          “Just…” Sam trailed off. Casting his eyes around the kitchen, he took in the mess. “I don’t know, man. Try, and hope Dean and Chuck are quick.”

          They all split in different directions, throwing open cupboards at random and shuffling through drawers.

          “Oh, come on!” Ned cried, turning to face the others, “I have tasted this place’s food before. They should have a whole _pantry_ filled with salt!”

          “You don’t want to hear me sing?” a feminine voice came from behind him. Ned didn’t turn around at first, just taking in the alarmed expressions on Sam and Beatrice’s faces fixed at a point just past his shoulders.

          Ned turned to face Angie and the ghost grabbed him by the neck. He had only a moment to wonder at how solid she felt—for a ghost—before he was flying through the air, hitting a shelf, and falling to the floor with a soft “ _oof_.” His impact with the shelf caused some of the objects to fall onto his head. He was simultaneously hit by several Tupperware containers, a ceramic bowl, and a large sack of—

          “Oh! Sam!” he called, looking up from the bag of salt that fell into his lap. On the other end of the kitchen, Sam was on his knees, trying to pry Angie’s hand from around his neck. “I have the salt! What do I do?”

          He looked at Beatrice, who shook her head and shrugged, eyes wide. “Hit her with it?”

          “Right,” Ned nodded and hurled the bag of salt at the ghost. Angie disappeared when the bag hit her, freeing Sam’s throat and leaving him to gasp for breath.

          Sam let out shaky laugh, reaching for the bag of salt and opening it. “Don’t just throw the _whole bag.”_

          “Well…it worked, didn’t it?”

          “For now. She’ll be back soon.”

          As if on cue, Angie’s singing began echoing through the kitchen.

.

.

          “Whew. So do you guys do this often? No wonder you’re both so…um. Muscular?” Chuck said, dropping her shovel and sitting on the ground.

          “Sucks, don’t it?” Dean laughed. “Come on, Chuck. You can’t leave all this work to me.”

          “I’m just taking a break! Sam and Ned will be fine. If Angie hasn’t made a move on Beatrice by now, it probably isn’t going to happen tonight.”

          “Fair point,” Dean nodded, sitting next to her. “So…Chuck short for something?”

          “Charlotte.”

          Dean hummed. “I knew a Chuck once…weird guy. It’s just a weird story in general, actually.”

          “Yeah? You seem to have a lot of those. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Makes for an interesting life, I suppose. Mine’s just kind of been…Well. I don’t know, I always wanted to see the world, but my aunts had matching personality disorders and extreme social phobias, and then when I tried to take a cruise I was strangled by a plastic bag.”

          Dean blinked at her. “Uh…I’m sorry? But believe me, I would _kill_ for an apple pie life. A little too much excitement can be a bad thing. I mean—“

          He was cut off by his phone vibrating. He fished it out, blinking at how bright the screen was in the dark. “Text from Sam. He—shit. Chuck, we have to keep digging. Sam says we need to hurry.”

.

.

          “Lay out a circle of salt.” Sam handed the bag of salt to Ned, sending Dean a quick text telling him to hurry. “Good. Now we have to stand inside.”

          They all stepped into the circle. It was a tight fit for the three of them, and Ned pulled his limbs close to his sides.

          “Right. So Angie can’t cross this line?” Ned asked, pointing down at the salt line.

          “No. Should hold her back until Dean can torch the bones.”

          Ned held a finger up, cringing. “Slight problem. Angie wasn’t killing people by _teaching_ them. I mean…she was killing people by singing them to death, wasn’t she? And now we’re kind of trapped in this circle thing…”

          “Shit.”

          “And you have nothing to do but to listen to me sing,” Angie said, appearing before them. Beatrice squeaked and hugged Sam’s waist.

          Angie had only gotten one horrible line out when Ned blurted, “You’re incredible!”

          Sam and Beatrice turned to look at him with wide eyes.

          “I am?” Angie asked.

          “She is?” Sam asked.

          “Uh. Yes! Absolutely! I have no idea why anyone would want to fire you.”

          "Really? Would you like to hear more?”

          “Uh…”

          “Yeah!” Sam said, catching on. “But first, I have to ask: how did you get to be so good?”

          “It’s natural talent,” Angie said, actually smiling.

          “No kidding! So you never took lessons or anything?”

          “Never,” Angie said, looking affronted. “I _was_ in choir in high school, though.”

          “Wow. That’s all? It’s, um, _incredible_ that you got to be such a good singer with so little experience. Right, Sam?”

          “I completely agree!” Sam said.

          Angie beamed. “Let me sing you one of the songs I wrote.”

          They all cringed, but before the ghost could begin singing, Angie shrieked and burst into flame.

          Ned peeked out from behind his hands, looking at Sam. “Is that it? Is she gone?”

          “That’s it,” Sam sighed, trying to pry the tiny singer’s arms from around his waist. “Um, Beatrice? Angie’s gone. You’re fine.”

.

.

          “Well, we’re off,” Dean began, clapping his hands together. “Hang on, where’s Ned?”

          “Coming,” Ned said, returning from the Pie Hole’s kitchen with two boxes. “I wanted to give you a little something for the road. Also as a sort of thank you for saving us from going after a ghost when none of us knew anything about ghost-hunting.” He handed Sam the boxes. “One Apple, one Pecan. On the house.”

          “Seriously, dude: You are a saint,” Dean grinned.

          “So this is goodbye, huh?” Chuck asked with a sad smile, “You guys are going off into the world to slay demons and burn ghosts and stuff. Well, we’ll always be here if you decide you need some pie or a hug or something.”

          “We’ll be sure to do that,” Sam laughed. “Thanks, Chuck. And feel free to call us if you guys ever run into anything else weird. You know, weirder than a guy that can touch people and bring them back to life.”

          “Right. We’ll be sure to do that,” Emerson Cod rolled his eyes.

          “Emerson, I’m not gonna say it was nice meeting you. Chuck, it’s been a pleasure, and Ned, you’re a cool guy. And you make awesome pie,” Dean said.

          “Yeah. Thanks for not, you know…hunting me,” Ned grinned sheepishly.

          “Don’t mention it,” Dean grinned, clapping Ned on the shoulder. “We’d better be on our way, though. There’s something that seems like it might be a werewolf a few states over.”

          “Ah. Monsters never wait, I guess,” Chuck smiled.

          “That’s true. It was nice meeting you guys!” Sam smiled, waving as he and his brother left the Pie Hole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I neglected this fic for so long and I'm sorry for those of you who are actively following it! But I hope you enjoyed! It was fun to write :) Tell me what you thought!


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